Ludo Brax: Intergalactic Gig Worker (Chapter 48)

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Actually, that one did throw me a bit. And honestly, maybe that's underselling it.

But only just slightly.

It's not like I screamed out in terror or anything like that.

It was more of a squeal.

And as far as whether I dissociated entirely, tripped over my feet, and fell into the arms of the crowd? What good are semantics?

The System had resorbed Meg. Fine. But I couldn't let that defeat me.

She was only the one entity in this whole ludicrous place who had even the faintest idea of what I had been through.

She was just, in a bizarre twist of fate, the only force in my life I could even remotely imagine might be on my side.

But it's not like I needed her. Not like I depended on her utterly or something like that.

The System could try all it wanted, but if it wanted to take me down, it was going to have to come up with something better than this surgically precise, perfectly calibrated escalation designed to hurt me where I was most vulnerable.

Something like—

> RUMINATION: - 10,000 points

> Keep it up, [Ludo Brax], and you'll never Ascend™.

 

Ascend. That final word hung in the air as members of the crowd dabbed my forehead with damp clothes and some wondered whether I might not be milking this all a little bit.

Ascension.

The notion had mocked me since the day I'd been forcibly uploaded into this place.

Metrics to gain, points to earn, all in the hopes of someday Ascending. It had been the bane of my existence back in the Garden. The omnipresent, mocking word on everyone's lips every day in The Sauna of Salaciousness.

Or at least I think so; I mostly closed my eyes.

And despite everything stacked against me, I had done it, somehow. Earning my way into this layer through some combination of good old-fashioned pluck and inscrutable, possibly nefarious happenstance.

The Ludo Brax one-two special.

But now that I had landed here, it seemed to me this should be the end of the line. The destination. Eternal paradise of one's own design — or whatever it was the marketing materials called it.

So where exactly was I supposed to Ascend to?

While my wheels were spinning, a murmur began to build in the crowd. It rose to a babble. And then to a hum.

By the time it reached me, it was practically a clamor:

"He's going to Xenyth!"

I jumped back to my feet in shock both at its content and its convenience as an answer to my question.

I needed a moment to regain my composure. And to remember what Xenyth was.

There were so many proper nouns in this place, sometimes it was hard to keep track. If I hadn't had Meg to help me, I'm not sure what I would've done.

The realization stung.

So did the congratulatory clap on the back someone gave me just as I was getting good and sulky.

I looked up to find Lt. Wulvik.

I barely recognized him here in The CLAMOGEPATO. He cut quite the figure in his actual uniform. He extended his hand and gave me a firm, manly, excruciating handshake.

"Xenyth, congratulations. Ascension on the first Conflict Cycle... It's a great honor, Brax."

I assumed the posture of someone who knew what that meant, realizing with lightning-fast social acumen that I could use my conversational skills to find out what I needed.

I released my hand from his grip and wiped the tears from my eyes.

"Please, call me Sir."

He recoiled a bit. But weekends were no excuse for informalities.

And besides, it couldn't hurt my cause to pull rank on him. (Even if I didn't technically outrank him in here.)

I continued on in my best impression of a superior officer.

"And yes, it really is an honor. I'm excited about many of the aspects to come. There's some in particular that excite me the most. Due to the nature of what Xenyth is. Which of course, you are more than aware of."

He narrowed his eyes, raised a quivering hand to salute.

"Yes sir. Quite aware."

I stared at him a good long while as he puffed out his chest and straightened his posture repeatedly in panicked, rapid succession. He looked like he was going to collapse.

Had I overdone it?

Lt. Wulvik was a good soldier, one of the best in our outfit, insofar as it wasn't just a figment of this conversational ruse. Was I really so desperate to find out more that it was an excuse to treat him like this?

I thought back to my ill-fated weekend in Boot Camp at the tail end of Operation Cosmic Cleanup. (Before they saw the results of my physical.)

The Sergeant had made me feel so small, and for what? Just because his hat was so much bigger than everyone else's?

I was better than that.

I smiled sympathetically back at him.

"As well you should be, Lt. Wulvik. At ease. And thank you for the congratulations."

He melted back down to a more casual stance, relieved, breathing heavily.

"Oh you're welcome sir. I'm sure it'll be a great time — seeing as it's the Elite City that only the most deserving, superior people gain access to."

The realization crashed down on me, sending my mind buzzing.

Xenyth, that's right.

It was just like The System to pull this now, dangling in front of me the one thing I desired more than anything else: the opportunity to resent and feel guilty about a life of obscene privilege.

I lifted my hand in salute and dismissed Lt. Wulvik, lips curling into a disbelieving smile.

"Our foe is a crafty one."

But just how crafty, even I couldn't have fathomed.

I turned away from Lt. Wulvik — now surveying the crowd with his hand on the butt of his rifle — and rejoined the throng.

Their attention had turned to something out front of the CLAMOGEPATO.

What now? I wondered, as I pushed my way through the mass of my Neighbors, many of whom threw rose petals at my feet, most likely meaning well and giving no indication they were aware how allergic I was.

Scores of them ahead of me were teeming out the front door in a surprisingly orderly fashion considering that many of them were cold-blooded tyrants or ecstatic prophets who loathed social mores.

Outside the CLAMOGEPATO they headed, to the Area Beyond Comprehension — The ABC.

Out of the one place where any of us could share our Ideal Forms in a coherent reality. Back into the mess of our overlapping, incompatible lives.

Or at least that's what I thought, as I pushed open the door behind them.

Instead, it was a Suburban parking lot.

It was packed to the brim with my Neighbors, still in their Ideal Forms.

"There he is!" Anagorazia shouted, pointing her staff at me, sending me diving to the floor out of habit.

Her tone, I realized as I lay face down on the gravel, was different now. Her disposition was, in a word, neighborly. Or as neighborly as someone could be while pointing a magical weapon at you.

I figured it prudent to stay on the ground a little longer, if only because the smell of tar was nostalgic for me, and let her make the next move.

I surveyed the scene in the meantime. What I saw was maybe the strangest escalation yet:

Witches, Gladiators, Giants ten feet tall — they all stood around chatting, shoved into polos and cargo shorts, sweatpants and sneakers.

It was all right out of a 20th century sitcom.

A bake sale being held by the Barbarian Homeowners Association. A group handing out fliers for a Town Meeting on the topic of carpool lanes for Dragon Riders.

They greeted me with expectant smiles as if nothing had changed at all.

But it was frighteningly clear that it had.

A point driven home immediately by the way Anagorazia scooped me up off the ground, equal parts friendly and bone-chilling.

"The details of your Conflict Cycle are here!" she shouted with glee, placing me back on my feet with a good-natured chuckle.

I dusted off my khakis, ready for anything.

Conflict Cycles, I knew, were times for maximum metric gain. Something set forth by The System to test you for short periods in your otherwise frictionless life. A chance to grow, to struggle.

To ultimately be rewarded with all kinds of incredible perks, inflate your WOZM.

And, most importantly, Self-Actualize.

People looked forward to them, speculated endlessly about what theirs would be.

But knowing how The System felt about me now, I was certain mine would be something less Self-Actualizing and more agonizing.

Some brutal final battle with the forces of evil in which I would certainly lose some of my best layers of skin.

A tortuous ordeal where my mettle and my attachment to some of my toes would be put to the test.

Something humiliating, something unbearable. Some ultimate confrontation with this System and its heinous logic.

All options were on the table as Anagorazia helpfully turned my head like a screw top toward the sky and showed me the details of my Arc, written clear as day for all to see:

 

>THROW BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR SYLAS AND DAX